In fields of gold, where whispers dance,
The harvest moon casts its gentle glance.
Leaves of amber, rust, and red,
Blanket the earth, where dreams are fed.

The farmer’s hands, both rough and kind,
Tend to the soil, where life they find.
Cornstalks tall and pumpkins bright,
Flourish beneath the autumn light.

With each sunrise, the labor calls,
To gather fruits before frost falls.
Apples ripen in orchard rows,
While winds of change begin to blow.

Gratitude fills the crisp, cool air,
For nature’s gifts, beyond compare.
As days grow short and nights extend,
We cherish harvest’s humble end.